Echo House
by Cassiel-of-Thursday
Summary: Sometimes, things don't work out like you plan. Sinbad had planned to make a new world and everyone was supposed to remember the old one, but somehow Sinbad was the only to remember, and he start remembering until just after he turned eighteen, and now he's found himself in an insane asylum and suddenly things reek of Al Tharmen. Is there any stopping the spreading darkness?
1. All day, staring at the ceiling

The halls were white. The sheets were white. Even his god-damn sweats were white. It was so… pale. Especially when he compared it to the life he sees so vividly behind his lids. Bright colors and smiles, tropical birds and luscious fruits, magic and adventures, rich purples and gentle greens, bright reds and vivid blues, all the colors of his kingdom and his people. The things he loved.

"Sinbad? Are you still with me?" He looked at the woman who spoke to him. She was no one special, just a face he saw, and spoke to as he was ordered to. This room was beige. Beige carpet, beige couch, and the same white white walls. He frowned. He had long lost interest in speaking to these people. "I can't help you if you don't talk to me Sinbad." Talk. How was he supposed to talk.

"What do you want me to say? I tire of these games, I tell you something, and you tell me its not real. You tell me the people I once held as my household, and that I have seen in _this_ world are coincidence."

"It's a common thing Sinbad, once the mind sees someone it never forgets them. You could have seen this 'Yamraiha' passing on the street, and your mind filtered her into your delusion, but your consciousness doesn't remember that time on the street, so seeing her now makes it feel like seeing her for the first time here." Sinbad groaned, letting his head fall back.

"I'm not delusional. I'm telling you. We tried to fix the world, to reboot it, and something changed but somehow I still remember how it was!"

"Sinbad, you are suffering from delusions. Specifically, ones of grandeur and persecution. You believe you were a God, and a King, in this other world, and that you are now being punished for mistakes you made in that world be being the only one who can remember it. Delusions of thinking you are God are quite common, but you have to understand they are _delusions,_ it's not reality. You are not a God. You were not a God. You are and were not a King. You are just a person, living in the twenty-first century."

"You're never going to believe me."

"I'm sorry Sinbad, but you're the one that needs to believe me. There was no Sindria, or Kou empire, or Alma Torran. You are just suffering from a mental disorder, and I can help you, but you have to let me." Sinbad was silent then. He knew. He knew in his heart Sindria was _real_. Everything he did, good and bad, was _real._ All the people that died under his rule, and all those that flourished. Those he helped, and those he deprived. Were all _real._ All the lies he spun were _real._ It couldn't be a delusion. The friends and alliances he wove, the camaraderie he shared with his generals, was all _real._ He stood then, his laceless shoes slipping on his feet as he walked away. It was almost lunchtime. At least… at least he could see some of them again. He was sure they were all out there somewhere, and he hoped those that weren't trapped here were okay, were living the independent lives they couldn't have serving under him. He hoped Hinahoho had found Rurumu again. He saw the Imuchakk man on the street one day, as he was heading for coffee. He'd contained himself that time, just barely. Hinahoho was the first one he had seen in this strange world.

Sinbad thought back to the days when everything was normal, when he was just a kid in high school, a football jock and a mediocre student. It wasn't until he was eighteen and almost graduated that the dreams came, bringing the memories of the world he once lived in and practically ruled. That he fought with Ren Kouen for dominance over, fought for the ideal of unification. The world where he created Sindria trading company, went on to found Sindria, and later the international alliance. Where he fought alongside his friends, his generals, and the one he still can't bear to dwell on for too long. Both for pain of loss, and for pain of the wrongs he inflicted. With so much spare time looking at blank ceilings and sorting out the timeline of the dreams that came so sporadically, came time to reflect in hindsight the choices he made. Most regretfully, the choices he made and people he neglected at the end of his life. The choices and opportunities he allowed to be sacrificed in lieu of following a King to be. He broke some weeks ago, lashing out and bloodying his fists against the wall in frustration at his old self.

 _This world is no better than the one we had. War still rules, racism and genocide, slavery is still a travesty, hate crimes and poverty, this world is fucked up. I didn't fix anything. All I did was end the lives of those who followed me so trustingly._ He pushed back those thoughts, unwilling to fall into such a downward spiral so early in the day. His vision was already bleary from tears at the shame of his actions, but he pushed them back, trying his best to stand up tall and walk with pride, to walk the way he used to down the stone corridors that lined his palace in Sindria, the way he used to when his advisor's footsteps echoed ever so faintly beside him.

How he missed everyone. Even Kouen and his family of oddities. Sinbad shook his head as he pushed open the door to the cafeteria. Immediately spotting the bright red hair at the far corner of the room, where a couple of security officers also stood. Ren Kouha. He was still rambunctious, and violent. He barely qualified for gen pub, and not isolation. Not to say he didn't often get sentenced to periods of isolation for attacking and biting other patients when they made fun of his braids. He had multiple personality disorder, one being a child, and the other a personality where he believes he is his own mother. The kid and his mother were abandoned by their father, and his mother was ill. When his father left, bills got defaulted on and collection services came after the mother. Kouha somehow was missed, and ended up on the streets. He was homeless for a couple of years, until he was brought into a police department after attacking a man who tried to assault the child. He wasn't there very long before they discovered his time on the streets had broken down his psyche, and he was transferred here. He had no record, seeing as it could have been plead both insanity and self-defense, and once fingers started pointing all attempts to sue were dropped by the man Kouha had attacked in retaliation. Doctors said it didn't seem like he'd suffered much physical trauma, a couple of broken bones and a poorly set pinky finger on his left hand that was fairly crooked when you looked at it up close, but the loneliness and abandonment were likely what caused his personality split.

Sinbad was thankful he seemed to still retain his charms. Even though many guards were male, he still had the charisma to get them to talk, and he'd managed a few sane conversations with Kouha himself. Enough to piece together his past with what some loose lipped guards were willing to share.

Sinbad hadn't known Kouha well previously, but he was still glad he hadn't been harmed too badly. From what he recalled, Kouha had a similar problem when he was first brought into the royal family. He wondered, if his other friends were living out lives similar to the ones they had before. Before Sinabad tried to reset the world, before he tried to fix everything. He hoped they weren't. Everyone he had collected in his household had been through their fair share of shit, slavery or abuse, everyone had some reason for leaving their homes and families. He wasn't sure what God ruled this world, if it were Solomon, or Aladdin, or some new deity. The people seemed to think it was some man named Jesus, Sinbad didn't know who this Jesus was, but he still sent prayers to the heavens that wherever his scattered friends were, they were living happy lives. That Mystoras and Pipirika could have another chance at love, that Rurumu and Hinahoho could grow old together, that Spartos could know his older brother, that Kikiriku could keep his mother. That Hakuryuu was still with his brothers and sister, that even the rest of the Ren family was happy and healthy.

Kougyoku had spent a short Summer here, a readjustment period. She had grown up in isolation, and was considered feral. He spoke with her a few times, as a friend, he had no energy for the games he had played in the old days. She took to him, being one of the few people she would regularly talk to, and he became a key part of her therapy, but he never attempted to win her over, or siphon information from her. If she said it, he listened, but he didn't search for clues, and one day, she was released. He tried to find out if Kouen had collected her, but no one would say the name of the one who took her home, except it was a family member, same name and same red hair. He assumed it was Kouen, her father hadn't resembled the Ren siblings very much at all, and he was sure her mother wasn't in the picture in this world either. He hoped one day they could take Kouha with them as well. They could be whole. His inner self laughed sardonically, that he would wish good things to the man that was once his rival, the only man that could possibly rival his power, and that threatened his dreams. Sinbad slipped into one of the benches, not feeling food, but not wanting to be alone in his room either.

There were times he missed his friends terribly, he missed his old life, and he found himself wishing he could see them again, but not here. He doesn't want anyone here. There were dark parts of the hospital, places bad things happened. Reprehensible things. Things that, though magic no longer exists, and neither does Rukh, nearly spark the air with evil foreboding. More than anything, it reeked of unfinished business, of things not sealed away properly. Things that, no matter that he had never visited that part of the hospital, he felt through the walls in his own room, the hauntings of misdeeds occurring, atrocious things akin to the travesties Al Tharmen wrought in his old world, in his old life. With his old friends. That no matter how he had tried, still managed to slip through his traps like smoke through a grate.

He remembered the first night, several years ago, that darkness had seeped into his room, chilling his bones and making his body feel heavy, dragging his heart to the ground and pulling him out of bed, drawing him to the door, and to the outside. He didn't step beyond it, knowing full well the lock would be turned, as it always is at lights out. They tried to allow people to be social, but at the same time, there were some unhinged people here, that needed to be confined. One day, when the time was right, Sinbad planned to use some of the less than honorable knowledge he learned in his teen years to slip out in the night, and venture to the dark side of the hospital. It beckoned him to it. He didn't know why, he could feel it though, he had a connection to something over there. He had a feeling, that the evil that ran that side, was probably a familiar face, however unpleasant a reminder it may end up being, he _had_ to know.

Sinbad looked around, gravitating towards the familiar green hair of his closest friend here, and one he shared in his old war.

"Hey Drakon," Sinbad said, walking in front of the man before speaking, and noting sadly, the violent flinch that ran through the other male. Drakon was a war veteran with severe PTSD. Sinbad had made the unfortunate mistake when Drakon had first been admitted, of running up and introducing himself with his usual bravado, and ending up pinned to the ground with the air pushed out of him by a very sturdy forearm, and then receiving a curt apology, followed by Drakon pretending nothing had happened at all. Sinbad knew pretty well at this point how to prevent responses like that, such as visually showing his presence before speaking, and not touching the man when he couldn't see what Sinbad was doing. It wasn't a trust thing at this point, Drakon trusted Sinbad more than anyone here, it was just a reflex, a symptom of his suffering, and that was what mad Sinbad's heart ache to see the friend he had known across realties respond that way to a simple greeting.

"Hello Sinbad, how are you this afternoon?" Drakon responded, quickly collecting his composure. Sinbad smiled warmly, seating himself across the table designed like a classic picnic table.

"As well as I can be. I'm still not getting anywhere with my therapist."

"Are you still trying to convince her you really _were_ a King and a God, only in a different dimension?" Drakon asked, perfect, and unrealistic if he may add, eyebrow raising.

"Close," Sinbad says, leaning forward so his elbows are atop the table, "same dimension, different time. If it were a different dimension, I don't think as many of us would have made it here."

"Ah yes, your friends you swear you knew in your other life you have seen on the streets here."

"I don't know why it seems so unrealistic, there's a whole religion that thrives on the idea of reincarnation, why is it so _strange_ to think I remember mine?"

"Because that doesn't happen, and you aren't talking about a time in prior history, you speak of a time where magic and dungeons were prominent things, and butterflies gave people power, that doesn't fit in with the timeline of the world."

"Maybe it just wasn't documented!" Sinbad exclaimed, throwing his hands in the air, and then wincing when he saw Drakon recoil at the noise.

"You told me _you_ yourself wrote novels. There would be a record somewhere about this. It wasn't in this world, hence, why I said dimension. I listen, I just didn't agree with your term."

"Also, they were not butterflies, they just looked like butterflies."

"I was joking. I knew that as well."

"You say it with such a straight face it's hard to tell you're kidding," Sinbad says, dropping his chin on top of his folded arms, eyebrows lowering as his dreams of ever being believed and finding _someone_ who knew what he was talking about also lowered. _Maybe if I could find Aladdin, or Scheherazade, or someone,_ he though, wondering if those who were deeply entwined with the Rukh may be more predisposed to memories of the previous world. _Maybe Aladdin would remember… too bad I can't find any of them. Judar was always on my doorstep back then, why can't he do that now?_ Sinbad immediately mentally takes that back. He figured if Judar was a pain in the prior life, he would be here too, just without the immense magic to back him up. Drakon shrugged, picking up his sandwich to nibble at.

"If you quit talking about it, played their game, you could probably get out," Drakon mutters, and Sinbad frowns, knowing it's not the same case for his friend. _This wasn't how it was supposed to happen._ He thinks, his frown deepening, and he feels like that expression may soon become etched onto his face. He had been smiles and laughter for so long before, and now, it's internalization and self-deprecation. He knows, it was his decisions, his call, his will, that brought this world into focus. His fault, that his friend was here, that his other friends were who knows where experiencing who knows what. He could only hope, and God did he hope, that they were happy. _Alive._ That those whose lives were cut short before, had a chance to experience life now, that there was _something_ good in what he did. That _someone_ could benefit.

 _Is he…_ Sinbad swallows hard, unable to vocalize that name, even internally. He had done so much wrong, asked so much of that person, and he never, ever properly thanked him, or told him the things he should have said. It's all wonderful now, in hindsight, being able to see what you should have done, to think of all the things you should have said, to look back and see how little things like taking a Queen or producing heirs mattered in the end, how much more being happy _did_ matter, and how much better you should have treated the ones dearest. How much you shouldn't have taken for granted, how much you should have paid attention to while it was in front of you, the details you should have committed to memory before that was all they were.

"You there Sinbad?" His head snaps up, and he rubs his temples, trying to ebb away a forming headache.

"Yeah I'm fine, and you're probably right." Sinbad leaves it at that, not wanting to dwell on it any longer. Sometimes it's too much to think of the past, to think of could be's and would be's, could have been's and should have been's. He can't do anything now, he made sure of that, everyone here, is just a normal human. No magic. No metal vessels. No darkness. No Magi. "I think I'm going to go ahead and head in." Drakon nods at him, continuing to pick at his food. Sinbad lets another glance pass on Ren Kouha before he leaves, his laceless slippers moving quietly on that awful white ground. His pants fell slightly above his ankles, a bit too short to accommodate his height, and a little too loose and low falling on his hips for his taste, but drawstrings weren't allowed. He dug a hand in his pocket, pulling free the hairpin he had seen on the ground some days ago, and running his fingers along the corners of a keycard he had jacked from an attendant that morning. Sometimes, he was glad some things hadn't changed. Women still found him just as charming, even if he still found them just as malleable and easy to manipulate.

He released the items before turning the final corner, eyes setting on the open door of his room, glad he was facing the inside of it. He didn't want to see the stupid plaque with his name and _disorder_ on it, didn't want to see the lock that would be turned at lights out, didn't want to see the checklist hanging on the nail in the center. As it were, if he didn't see it, he could pretend it wasn't even there. He flopped himself on the bed, his hair flopping to the side. He tucked his special items in a small hole he had pulled out of the seam in the mattress, and proceeded to untie the knot he had wound his hair in. They didn't want to give him a hairtie or a ribbon, but he refused to cut it, and couldn't stand to have it freefalling, so he settled for a loose knot in his hair itself. It was brushed out easily enough, and it kept him sane. He let the hair splay about him, crossing his arms under his head and staring at the blank, white ceiling.

For all the circles his mind had been running before, it was awfully silent now, a desolate desert lacking even a tumbleweed. His eyes opened and shut, spending longer closed with each passing cycle, until he fell asleep altogether. Welcoming the blank space of unconsciousness.

His mind isn't blank for long after he falls asleep, tendrils of something even darker worm their way through, grasping at corners and pulling, bringing a sense of foreboding and anxiety, but bringing no material reason for it. The darkness just keeps tugging, the ambiguity and anonymity of it all, the formless feeling of dread, the anticipation of horrors to come, quickens his heart, races his pulse and amber eyes snap open, a cold sweat drenching him, arms and legs still numb from the fear.

Sometime during his sleep, lights out had been called, and his door was pulled soundly shut, and though he hasn't checked the handle, he knows it is locked. It doesn't carry the usual reminiscence of a cage though, and he wonders if that's because he holds the tools to undo it, or if it is for some other reason, maybe he is just getting used to it, is accustomed to being locked in his room at night. It's supposed to be 'for his own safety.' He doesn't know how much he buys into that though. It sounds like a lot of bs, for their safety more like, so a psycho that thinks he's a God doesn't come out a butcher everyone for his own holy purposes.

He swings his legs over the edges, slippers he never removed before sleep catching the floor, and he tugs his hair back into its sloppy confinement. He hadn't planned on it being tonight, but something, some urgency, compels him to pull his stash from its hiding place, to pull apart the hairpin and pocket the keycard, drag his thawing limbs towards the door to his cell, and try for the umpteenth time that shiny silver knob. To his surprise, the handle turns without tampering. He gawks at it for a moment, before placing the pin in his breast pocket just in case he needs it later. Thick eyebrows draw together in concentration as he pulls open the door further, stepping out into the hallway. He knows, from various sources, that the night watch if fairly thin. One or two guards throughout the facility, making sure no one is causing problems. He was never very good at stealth himself, always having opted for a more upfront approach to things, but he supposes he's adept enough to avoid a couple poorly trained humans as long as he keeps his ears peeled.

He presses on, his body feeling heavier the closer he comes to the deep area of the facility, the place they take the truly desperate cases, and the one that practically reeks of evil. When he finally reaches the door, one barred by keycard access rather than traditional locks and keys, he can't help but think, if only extremely briefly, that this is an ill thought out plan. Rather, it is well thought out, but poorly informed. He knows his side of the area well, how many guards, roughly when they are where, but this side, he barely knew. He knew the Ren boy had been to this side, only briefly, but he had, after brutally attacking another patient.

They kept him in confinement no more than 60 hours, and Sinbad had tried to talk to him about it, but it had yielded few results. Between the abnormalities in his behavior Sinbad had been aware of when the boy was a general and a dungeon capturer, there where the quirks associated with him had multiple personality disorder, and halfway through a conversation, Kouha suddenly saying he was a woman, and that he was Kouha's mother and that Sinbad shouldn't bother Kouha and she's a beautiful woman and important and her and her son don't need Sinbad or anyone around. Sinbad found that menial conversation typically didn't cause a switch, but something emotional or potentially stressing could cause the personalities to swap. He liked Kouha ok, and he continued to have conversations with him even when he deemed gathering information a fruitless task, even in the Ren family he found comfort in being around those familiar to him.

Sinbad shook his head, decisively swiping the card and pulling open the door, and feeling the chill rush through the open crack, sweeping over him as he yanked it open the rest of the way. He passes through the doorway and the first thing he noticed his how dank it seems, as if this part is somehow much older than the portion mere feet behind him. The light feels like its passing through a filter, faded and dimmed, and the air is stagnant. The whiteness remains, ceiling and floor alike, so very, damnably white.

The foreboding darkness is there, nearly oppressive in its weight, surrounding him and weighing him down, and Sinbad is weary, and feels as if he could reach out and grasp it, though he knows his fingers would catch nothing, it would slip through his fingers and continue to dance around him, mocking him with its ambiguity and familiarity, its resemblance to his previous foe, to Al Tharmen. He wondered if here to, it threatened to rip open voids and destroy worlds, break people and ruin countries. He wondered if some of these world leaders were fallen, if some of the atrocities of history were more of their works, or if it was simply the pitiable behavior of human kind. He wasn't sure which was worse.

A flash of white, like a ghost, zips by him damn near soundlessly, and all of a sudden his back hits the ground, and his breath is pulled from his lungs, but it's not from the impact, but from the sight he sees above him. His shoulders scream as bony knees lock onto pressure points that make his arms unable to move, and his chin is forced up as a deceptively small forearm thrusts its way under it, pressing on his throat, the other holding a scalpel, poised to strike like the neck of a cobra, and the thing that keeps his lungs empty, are the painfully familiar narrowed dark eyes, almost completely black except for a fleck of green almost imperceptible if you weren't intimately familiar with them, fringed by white hair quite a bit longer and dirtier than he had ever remembered it being, a freckled nose, and bared teeth of the person he never thought he'd see again, and the one he had longed to see most of all. He regains his senses enough, as voices and shouts reverberate in the direction the smaller male had launched himself from, to pull in enough air for a single word.

"Ja'far."

 **And that's it for now. I'm very excited about the prospect for this story, so I apologize if some things didn't make sense, I was super eager to get it out on paper, and have a horrid habit of not proofreading things very well. If anything doesn't make sense let me know and I'll be sure to clarify either in a revision or incusion in the next chapter, leave a review if you liked it, more to come shortly, and happy holidays! Now, It's 1:30 am and I need to go to sleep. -_-**

 **Until next time!**

 **Asthmatic Glader**


	2. Making friends with shadows

A wet splash hits his cheek, and he notices the burgundy tainting that white hair, tainting it, reminiscent of paint falling on the purity and beauty of a white rose. The blood seeped from his temple, and Sinbad noticed how concerningly thin the male was as he loomed above him.

In that moment, something inside him snapped. Smelling the iron and hearing the impending voices, sensing the danger, he bucked his hips up, flinging the male over his head, sending him reeling, though he bounced back to his feet as agilely as Sinbad expected, as fluidly as he would have in the life he had flashes of behind his lids and in his sleep. With the grace and fluidity of a practiced killer.

Sinbad stood, holding out his arms as the guards neared.

"What the fuck are you doing?!" The voice behind him snapped but Sinbad didn't turn, didn't acknowledge it. Ears privy instead to the not so distant voices.

"How in the hell did you let him get away?!"

"You were told… to be careful!" Shouts punctuated with sharp breathy intakes, with the desperate pull for air from those less athletically inclined.

"Stay behind me," Sinbad hissed. Ja'far made no response, or any move to disobey.

"Who are you?" The first grunt skidded to a stop in front of them, a taser in hand and a shot gun strapped to his hip. Sinbad didn't dignify the question with a response, glaring harshly instead. Another two men arrived, one panting heavily, the other giving a hard slap to the back of his head.

"You were explicitly told he was dangerous!" The other clutched his head, still unable to catch his breath. "What the hell did you do?"

"What _did_ you do to him?" Sinbad growled, arms still outstretched protectively in front of Ja'far.

"None of your business rat," the first arriver, a very tall, broad man, with dark hair and a goatee.

"Step away from him," the other spoke, the one who had been scolding moments ago. Sinbad's toes twitched in his slippers, readying for action, to fight or flee, whichever he felt would protect the man behind him, the one that, though he didn't know in this life, had been so dear to him prior. The one he had never appreciated enough, that he had never told him he loved him, never been able to, .

Thoughts of his echoing mistakes made his hands tremble and kept him awake in the late hours of night, that caused him to be perpetually sleep deprived and somber, as much as he would try and present himself the way his old self had in his memories, feeling like that was a resemblance to his true self, to a self that wasn't bogged down by regret and self-loathing for the memories of how he had treated those close to him. To those who had been there for him time and time again, only to be thrown aside when it mattered with no explanation.

"What did you do. To. Him," Sinbad tried again.

"You have no idea who that is, or what he's done."

"I don't care," Sinbad spits through his teeth, his body desperately wanting to turn and face Ja'far, to look at him, to memorize his face and the lines of his face, the way his hair fell and his mouth set, but he stayed it, he held his gaze with the abhorrent person before him.

" _How_ again, did he get away from you?" The man's fist twitched, as if he were eager to strike the man who had barely caught his breath, and was standing, though his posture was hunched and his breath still too quick. "Did you follow procedure?"

"I did! Mostly," the one choked, Sinbad's eyes passed between the three, dancing around, ears twitching as more commotion sounded.

"Mostly?! Are you kidding me?"

"He'd been catatonic for _days_! So I slacked a little, anyone would!"

"You could have gotten us all killed you good for nothing dumbass."

"Will you two shove it." Sinbad watched, putting together the large one was in charge, and the unfit one was obviously lowest in the chain of command. Most likely fresh, and probably siphoning drugs from the hospital, which he deducted was part of how Ja'far had gotten away from his lackeys in the first place.

Ja'far stumbled behind him and Sinbad turned sharply, noticing again the wounds on his temples, the way the clothing that hung off his body, draping to reveal most of his shoulder, and a more collarbone more prominent than it should be, had blood stains.

"Did you fucking _trepanate_ him?!" Sinbad shouted, "I'll-" he was cut off by the cool pressure of metal against his neck, the sting as the hand holding it got a little too eager and broke his skin.

"Back away or I'll kill him," Ja'far says, his tone even and just as boyish as Sinbad remembered from his dreams, and though his life was balancing on the edge of a blade, he smiled, reminiscent of the days of their meeting, another time he had the pale man holding metal to his throat. Days when things were simpler, when it was dreams and adventures, rather than Kingship and diplomacy.

A taser sounded behind them and Ja'far jolted, falling to the ground in seizes as the electricity shot through his body, wracking his frame. Sinbad had never been tased, but he couldn't help but feel what unfolded before him was too violent, too much.

He lunged at the guard that had snuck up on them, landing a punch to the man's jaw, his fist resounding with a snap before arms wrapped under his own and crossed behind his head, his knees knocked out and he fell to them painfully.

"You leave him alone!" Sinbad shouted. One man had a gun trained to Ja'far, another kneeled beside him, a syringe in hand, and a last wrenching the long sleeve of his shirt of and wrapping a band around the limp forearm of his one time friend. "Stop it!" His eyes trailed over the exposed flesh, the skin rough and marred, new and old, angry red, fading purple and barely there white scars, bruises and dozens of puncture wounds accompanying the newest one as the attendant slid the needle into nearly transparent skin, unloading its contents into his veins.

A painful pull to his shoulder dragged his attention away for a moment, a violent thrust to his upper body and he fell to the ground, jaw colliding with the tile and reverberating down his neck, his teeth aching at the impact.

"Sir, calm down," the one behind him says. Both arms are tugged behind him, and the man is crouched above him, but he doesn't care. Not really. His eyes are trained on Ja'far. On the slim man, the one that had always been through too much, who seemed so frail but stayed so strong. Who's loyalty was as fierce as his blade, and whose heart was uncharacteristically large.

He was lying on his back, white hair splayed around him like a faint glowing halo, long spindly legs, one stretched out, the other bent inward and his arm tucked daintily across his chest, the other dropped unceremoniously to the ground when the attendant finished depositing the drug. The dark crimson stained his hair, dripping down onto the tile, staining the picture perfect white atmosphere. Even in this state, his face was taut, eyes closed, though they seemed ready to pop open at any moment, and the guards seemed to sense that.

"Give him another dose," the one behind Sinbad says, and Sinbad is frozen to the ground, their words hitting his eardrums, but not quite registering, their meaning slipping by, their sound processing in his mind but the words just not clicking together.

"That could kill him."

"And if he's not out until we get him tied back down, we'll be killed. You _know_ how he is after sessions."

"He's a freak."

"It doesn't matter anyway, give it to him. It's not like we'll face a lawsuit if we lose him. No one's missing this trash."

"Is that true? The rumor?" Sinbad identified that voice as the newer guy, the one the others pinned the blame on when Ja'far was running down the hallway.

"Now is not the time to gossip Joseph."

"Yes, sir." The one replies dejectedly. One of them kneels by Ja'far again, tapping another syringe with pudgy fingers, not having to retie the tourniquet, not having removed it after the first go.

"Don't do that!" He heard himself say, and he struggled against the man above him, but made no progress in shaking the man off. "Fuck! Leave him alone!"

"You better shut up before I make you," the man said through gritted teeth, finding difficulty in maintaining his hold on Sinbad.

"You better," Sinbad hisses, thrashing harder, then stilling as he sees the rise and fall of Ja'far's chest slow to a cease, his pallor failing impossibly lower, turning a muted grey rather than the luminescent alabaster it usually was. Sinbad felt his jaw fall slack, and his heart skip a beat, stutter uncertainly in his chest, as he practically watched the life ebb away from the man on the floor not feet from him.

"Check for a pulse, don't just stand there!" The one over Sinbad, now that he is frozen in shock, is calling orders, but its all a dull roar at this point, words indistinguishable, the mild colors of the hallway blurring into a off white swirl in his vision. Then, as soon as it had faded, it's all back in focus, hypersharp and too much, too much color and too much to take in, and his blood is in his ears and his hands tremble with the pumping adrenaline and his head is swimming with anger.

"There's no pulse!"

"Start CPR, someone get a defibrilla-" and then he's cut off, thrown back against the wall and Sinbad is on his feet, gazing helplessly as one a male nurse issues compressions, watching the slack expression on the greyed skin of his friend, watched his head, with all his boyish features, rock with each shake to his frame.

"You're all monsters!" He yelled, and went to move closer when he heard a sickening crack as the compressions continued. "You, you killed him," his voice breaks and he falls to his knees, all the fight sucked out of him, dripping out his extremities as quickly as it had come, leaving a painfully numb feeling, and then he felt a pinch to his arm. In a belated reaction, he turns barely in time to see the needle withdraw from his skin, and he falls to the side, the last thing in his fading vision, is the nurse trying to force air into lungs that had been forced to stop by their own hands, and the sound of a drop of water, that he thinks may be a tear from himself, just maybe.

He wakes, and the light in the room is muted, but not artificial. He reckons it's probably afternoon. Not bright enough for morning or noon, and not dim enough for evening. He sits up, feeling a painful ache in his body and a weight in his chest like he hadn't truly felt in this lifetime. The only thing he could relate it to, were memories from his old life, and even they didn't hold a candle to this, this emptiness, this vast hole, that though was missing something, still felt like it weight a half ton, pulling him back down to the bed, willing him to sleep and not get back up.

Despite it all, he swings his legs over, knowing if he doesn't get up soon, he'll miss any chance of being able to get any food for the day, the hours of closed doors and locked handles drawing near. He didn't look forward to spending a night hungry, and judging by how long he had slept, he likely wouldn't find rest again for a good many hours.

As he moves, some of the weight in his body leaves, and he feels like his head and senses clear up a little as he gets the blood flowing, but he can't shake the hollowness, the distinct feeling of loss, but he can't fathom why. He, for once, didn't even dream. There were no memories to trigger this sense of loss, this unbearable pain, like an organ, or something vital had been removed from him, like his own hand or foot or heart had been amputated without him knowing or remembering, he just know it's missing, and its terrible.

He only gets half down the hallway when he sees Kouha, sauntering around with a sway to his hips, twirling one of the longer sections of his hair around his fingers.

"How are you Sinbad?" He asks, in his high, child like voice. Sinbad cringes internally, he's really not in the mood for these antics right now, not with the way he feels and his moderate urgency.

"I'm doing well ma'am, and yourself? How's your son?" He asks politely, knowing by now which mannerisms belong to Kouha, and which belong to him when he believes he is his own mother. It's so.. weird. That dynamic. Red eyes brighten, and it almost highlights the dark rims around sunken in eyes, and Sinbad wonders if the kid ever freaking sleeps.

"I've never been better. Kouha said he missed you yesterday though, that you weren't in the hall," Sinbad frowns at this, he was fairly confident in his ability to tell the two personalities apart, and he had been almost positive it had been Kouha he had seen at dinner yesterday, so was he wrong? "You look troubled dear," Kouha continues, laying a dainty hand on his shoulder.

"What day is it?"

"Thursday child." Sinbad's eyebrows shoot up. Thursday? It had been Monday when he had spoken with Drakon in the cafeteria, when he thought he had seen Kouha in the hall, and now it was Thursday?! Was he really asleep for two days? The more he thought about it, the more his head ached. He remembered going to bed early that day, maybe he had been sick and hadn't realized it.

"It's been nice to see you, I have to go though," he excuses himself hastily, speeding down the hallway and to the cafeteria area. He spies Drakon quickly, all thoughts of food and eating long gone. "Did you see me yesterday?" He asks, plopping down directly in front of his friend, feeling bad for a moment at the jolt that goes through the man's spine at his intrusion. "Sorry," he tacks on as Drakon processes the question.

"No, are you alright?" He asks, looking at Sinbad with all too receptive eyes. Sinbad is quiet for a moment, debating whether or not to disclose the truth, or to keep it to himself.

"I don't know. I don't remember the last two days." Sinbad admits, opting to go with honesty after all.

"I thought perhaps you had gotten in trouble for conduct again," Drakon says, "but you don't remember it at all?" He inquiries. Sinbad shakes his head, dropping it into his hands and pulling at his bangs.

"I remember going to my room, and going to bed, but nothing else."

"It's possible you just slept that long, and therefore have no memories of doing anything, because you did nothing." Sinbad doesn't move, that option having already come through his head, but that didn't explain the way he woke up, the feeling in his gut, or the nagging feeling that something was abhorrently wrong. He raises his head, giving a charitable smile to his friend, deciding to play it off, not wanting to worry Drakon, or draw nay attention to his potentially further deteriorating mental health.

"You're probably right. It was just… disorientating to wake up and find out it's two days later than it should be." Drakon smiles at him faintly, a barely there upturn of the corner of his mouth before he goes to stand.

"Well, if you'll excuse me, I have to go to my session," Sinbad nods at him, and that is all there is to their farewell. Once Drakon exits, Sinbad opts to go and scrounge up a little remaining food, and he settles back down to eat, the end of the free time quickly drawing to a close. He nibbles at his food, not particularly interested, but knowing he will be very hungry in a couple hours if he doesn't eat something, but for some reason the corner of the room is more interesting than the food on his plate.

He tucks a piece of bread into his pocket, stomaching as much of the rest as he can before tossing it. He sits there for a bit longer, not really wanting to return to his room so soon, and knowing the orderlies _will_ come and ask him to leave, so it's not like he can somehow get locked _out_ of his room, so he sits, letting his gaze space out and his thoughts wander, wander to a white haired friend with deceptively boyish features for a man approaching his thirties. To friends and adventures, to magic and swords, a place for brighter than this. One that had seemed so turmoiled at the time, but would be peace compared to this den of racism and war, genocide and of nuclear weapons, who would have thought metal vessels could be made to look obsolete? He sighs, and just as he is about to leave, the door opens, and he turns, as always, curious and nosy, to see who else is as late to the day as he was.

His heart stutters.

His pulse quickens.

And he could almost feel the rage radiating off of himself.

 _Ithnan._

 **Sorry that took a little while. I don't know how to manage stories, and I don't know if you've noticed, but I currently writing three different Sinja stories, and I realized two of them were heading in very similar directions, so I had to take some time out to remap one of them, and it's just been interesting. I hope you like, review and I'll try and get a new chapter out as soon as possible.**


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